Last month I was asked to write a lyrical, or fragmented, essay for a class. It’s a poetic style of essay—not something I’ve tried before. But I enjoyed weaving the different strands around entropy, an idea that keeps fascinating me.
Do you like this form? Do you like my essay?
The Second Law of Thermodynamics
My little sister is excited for her first day at school. Melted water will not reform into an ice cube. On a treadmill you keep running to stay in the same place. You cannot ungrey your hair, except with dye, which I do. Every transmitted message contains a certain amount of noise.
My little sister finds me at recess, she laughs as she runs toward me. In Both Sides Now, Joni Mitchell says every day you gain one thing and lose another. I lift weights and they are heavy but this is good for me. Tolerance is when you need larger amounts of the drug to get the same high. Control-Z only works on the keyboard.
My little sister walks home proud to have gone to school. In 2am, Anna Nalick says we can’t hit rewind. The hedonic treadmill is the tendency to get used to good things and then expect more. A drop of red dye in a glass of water will turn the whole glass pink but the dye will never return to being a single drop. I have to lift the heavy weights again next week.
Are you looking forward to going back tomorrow, my grandmother says to my little sister. In More Than This, Roxy Music says the tide has no way of turning back. You cannot unwrinkle your face, except with Botox or fillers or surgery, which I don’t. I have to lift heavier weights because the weights that were good for me last month are not good enough any more.
Stephen Hawking says the arrow of time explains why we remember the past but not the future. The spilled milk will never unspill. You cannot unbreak a glass. You cannot unsag your skin. My little sister looks up from her plate of Sao biscuits and cheese and says, What, again?
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